


Scenes from Out of the Dawn

by SpaceWall



Series: Dawn [2]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Bad Ideas, Brotherly Love, Brothers, Cousins, Deleted Scenes, Developing Relationship, Drunk Elves, Established Relationship, F/M, Family Reunions, Finarfin is the best, First Dates, Fluff and Angst, Forgiveness, Friendship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Half-Siblings, Hugs, Humor, Loss, Love, M/M, Maglor's Angst - Freeform, Other, Past Character Death, Redemption, Sam Gamgee does not have time for this BS, Weddings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-26
Updated: 2018-10-15
Packaged: 2019-02-07 03:55:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 13,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12832779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpaceWall/pseuds/SpaceWall
Summary: Deleted scenes and excerpts from the Dawn Series.Ch. 1 - In which Sam meets Maglor and gets on a boatCh. 2 - In which Gil-galad and Celebrimbor have a wedding feastCh. 3 - In which Celebrimbor and Gil-galad discuss NarviCh. 4 - In which Finrod talks to Caranthir after his returnCh. 5 - In which Finarfin's Children are WeirdosCh. 6 - In which Finarfin and Fëanor talk it outCh. 7 - In which Celegorm tells Maedhros (and Fingon) the truthCh. 8 - In which Ecthelion and Aredhel meet (again)Ch. 9 - In which Voronwë comes to ValinorCh. 10 - In which Idril receives a surprise and Celegorm gives oneCh. 11 - In which the Dagor Dagorath is discussed, and a wild Finduilas appears





	1. In which Sam takes a page out of Bilbo's book (figuratively)

**Author's Note:**

> This is set in the same world as the rest of the Dawn series, but consists entirely of scenes that were cut for length, theme, or tone reasons. Or one-shots that didn't really fit in a longer story. Ch. 1 is cut from Out of the Dawn, 2 & 3 are from Star-rise, 7 is from In Moonlight, 8 is from A New Day, and the rest are just for kicks.

Sam gave the elf a judgemental look. He sat hunched on the beach, holding a reed flute in one hand. Both them were curled into fists like he were hiding something. His hair was matted, and his figure gaunt. This was the third time that Sam had found him. The first time, he had been singing, quietly, in some form of elven tongue. The second, he had been weeping. Not a single time had he seen Sam watching.

“Get up!” Sam delivered this the command as to a rowdy child, and watched the elf scramble to his feet. His face was as gaunt as his body, and his cheeks were tear stained. He scanned for figures at eye level, spinning fully around before he saw Sam. 

His voice was rough when he spoke, and he had an accent that Sam could not place. “You,” he accused, “are neither man, nor elf, nor dwarf, nor ent. Unless you are one of the Valar or Maiar in a form I do not recognize, you must be some new form of creature.”

Sam explained what a hobbit was, something which he had done more than anyone should have to explain anything. The elf nodded along. Then, in the manner of old hobbits, Sam changed topic abruptly. “Are you coming?”

The elf blinked. “Coming where?”

Sam gestured at the sea. His boat was some ways off, in a secluded cove. “West.”

The elf shook his head. “I cannot sail, though unless I am missing some key detail about the nature of hobbits, neither can you.”

Sam continued along the beach, the elf following a couple paces back like a stray dog. “Why exactly can’t you sail? You clearly want to. And you’re no Arwen or Legolas, attached to some mortal. Seems to me all you’re attached to is on that other shore.”

The elf stopped, and Sam turned again to face him. “You know Queen Arwen?”

Sam forgot, sometimes, that Arwen and Strider were supposed to be great people, distant and famous. Though once he’d been as awed by their royal nature as any, he’d also spent many years now corresponding with them, and it was hard to think of someone who wrote to you of their children and their plants as distant and famous. Most recently, Sam had told them of his intent to make this voyage. Though he suspected neither truly had faith in his success, they’d gathered for him a collection of letters, to take to their family on the far shore. It was a heavy duty, but one Sam bore with pride.

“I was at her weddin’ to Strider- King Elessar if it please you. And of course I met her before that in her father’s house. Good sort that one-” Sam cut himself off before he could move onto a long tangent. 

The elf stared, open mouthed, at Sam. “Who are you?” 

Sam considered this question. Something in the back of his mind told him he had to get this elf onto the boat. If for no other reason than that in his despair, his longing for peace, he reminded Sam of Frodo. He considered every trick that he had learned, and eventually settled on the most classic of all. Old Mr. Bilbo would’ve been proud. 

“I tell you what- if you can guess who I am, you can stay on this shore and I’ll leave you be. If not, you come with me and I’ll tell you.”

The elf said nothing, and followed Sam into the cove where his boat was moored. When he finally opened his mouth to guess, his guesses were, Thorin Oakenshield (not too far off, all things considered), Beren (reborn, somehow), and Sauron. When Sam had laughed at the last of these guesses, the elf was forced to admit defeat, but did not get on the boat. 

“I believe that you lost,” Sam said, looking down at the elf from atop his boat. His black hair was a tangled mess, unwashed and matted.

“I don’t believe I ever agreed to your terms in the first place, Master Hobbit.” The elf took a step back, to better look up and meet Sam’s eyes. He looked guilty, but strangely resigned.

Sam had considered this twist of the rules. “Would you cheat an old hobbit?”

“I’ve done far worse things.” The elf told him, sadly.

“So you would leave me, having never set foot on the sea before, to sail it alone and possibly capsize and drown without help?” Sam was not above using the elf’s guilt nor his morals against him.

The elf clenched his fists tightly, but he joined Sam on the boat, and they set off into the west together.


	2. The Wedding of Gil-galad and Celebrimbor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inviting every member of your crazy extended family to your wedding is a bad idea, but Gil-galad did it anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the deleted last scene from Star-rise, which you should read first.

“Oh no,” Celebrimbor muttered, looking past Gil-galad, a look of sudden horror on his face. 

“What?” Gil-galad asked, already turning around to watch. Thus far, the wedding had gone well, but there was time yet. They’d spent months trying to figure out the seating perfectly to keep known enemies well away from one another. But even they could not protect their family from their ability to seek out a fight. 

Celebrimbor didn’t bother to answer, and they both watched Finrod cross the room, eyes fixed on Celegorm. Gil-galad had assumed, perhaps incorrectly, that Finrod, who bore neither of them ill will, would keep the peace at the wedding. Finrod stopped right behind Celegrom, and everyone else at the table (Lalwen, Caranthir, Findis, Aredhel and Gil-galad’s maternal grandmother) stopped talking to look up at him. Up on the dais with Celebrimbor and Gil-galad, Fingon whispered a curse under his breath, and jostled Maedhros to get his attention. Celegorm, perhaps sensing the tension in the room for the first time, stood and turned to face Finrod. As though they were a single unit, Caranthir and Maedhros stood, but they were too late. Finrod moved first. He hit Celegorm once, hard in the stomach. Before Caranthir could make it around the table to return the offence, Finrod had pulled a winded Celegorm into a hug.

Voicing his thoughts, Gil-galad muttered, “This family is so weird.” Celebrimbor exhaled a gentle laugh, and all the tension went out of the room. Caranthir finished his rounding of the table to give Finrod a rough slap on the back, and then pulled him into a hug too. Lalwen graciously gave her seat up to Finrod, and went to talk to Galadriel. In doing this, Lalwen kicked Turgon from his seat. From there, it was dominos.

Celebrimbor and Gil-galad watched as all their careful planning disintegrated in front of them. Turgon, unseated, had gone to take Finrod’s initial seat, which had happened to be across the table from Maglor. This caused Maglor to stand to leave, probably more out of care for Turgon’s feelings than his own discomfort. Turgon had not fully forgiven Maedhros or Maglor for the ill that had befallen his grandson’s people. Unfortunately for the both of them, Eärendil, a table over, turned around to talk to Turgon, and in pulling out his chair, kept Maglor from leaving without some awkwardness. Elrond, who was also watching from the dais, went quickly to relieve Maglor, but he didn’t make it halfway across the hall before running into Amras- or possibly Amrod- who began to speak to him in low tones. Maedhros stood too, going to relieve Elrond, but sitting with Amrod and Amras was Idril. Thus it went, until the entire system had collapsed. Similarly, Celebrían, who was by the end the only person left at the dais save for the grooms, had collapsed into giggles. 

“Quit that,” Gil-galad told her. “It’s our wedding. You shouldn’t be laughing at our failures.”

Celebrían shook her head ruefully. “I’m not laughing at your failures, you mad men. I’m laughing at your success. Look at this. Those people should be killing each other. Instead, they’re talking. Actually talking. Look at Idril and Maedhros. They talk, what, once every couple centuries, less? Look at them. Certainly, Celegorm and Finrod should be at each other’s throats, but they’re wrapped around one another like lost children. Is Finrod crying?”

“I think so,” Celebrimbor replied, a small smile gracing his lips. Given that this was their wedding, Gil-galad leaned up to give him a gentle kiss. 

When the moment was over, Celebrían returned to the topic at hand. “I think the only person who looks truly uncomfortable is Findis. And I’m mostly convinced that’s just her personality.” 

Indeed, Finwë’s oldest daughter did look as sour as a lemon, and her lips were pursed like she’d just eaten one. But then, as if on cue, Finarfin strode up to her, and dropped down into a chair. Whatever he said made her laugh, and the three on the dais watched her entire face change, going from emotionless and unpleasant to warm and soft. 

“Never mind that,” muttered Celebrían. “It appears that you’ve returned to your perfect record.”


	3. Celebrimbor and Gil-galad discuss Narvi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A conversation between Celebrimbor and his husband on the topic of roads not taken, which is not so much a deleted scene as it is not part of any bigger scene

“Did you love him?” Gil-galad asked one day, rather out of the blue. 

Celebrimbor, who was working on a miniature prototype of a kind of airtight metal ship, came a hairsbreadth from striking his own thumb. He turned to his husband, and spun the hammer once in a manner that would have been intimidating if he did not love Gil-galad far too dearly to ever do him harm, as Gil-galad well knew. 

“If you’ve taken to speaking in third person, husband mine, then yes, I love you. I would have thought it was evident by this point.”

“I love you too, Celebrimbor, obviously. But I meant him.” Here, Gil-galad gestured to the painting of Narvi that hung high on the wall, just far enough from the forge that it would not become stained with smoke and ash. Based on the look on Gil-galad’s face, he’d probably gestured the first time too, and Celebrimbor had simply missed it

Celebrimbor, who was frankly surprised it had taken Gil-galad these centuries to ask, put down his hammer. It was not an easy question to answer, but with the benefit of a few millennia of hindsight, Celebrimbor had few qualms about answering truthfully. 

“I think I could have loved him, given time. He was in the ways of the mind the truest peer and partner I have ever had. But time was the one thing we didn’t have. Does that bother you?”

Gil-galad looked up at the painting, meeting Narvi’s eyes instead of Celebrimbor’s. Paints were not among Celebrimbor’s talents, so this work had been done by Caranthir’s hand. His literary uncle had never met Narvi, but knew enough dwarves to from Celebrimbor’s description fashion a likeness. The eyes were not quite right, for they were too elven in their light. They should have been reflecting fire, not starlight. Otherwise, however, the painting was quite accurate. The dark tangles of Narvi’s beard, woven through with beads of gold and ruby, the mithril clasp upon his ear, and the cunning smile on his face. 

“No, I do not think it bothers me. It should not, certainly. For it is I who have given you my heart, and received yours in return. Though Narvi is not here to press his suit. Perhaps if he was, I would feel differently. Do you miss him?”

Celebrimbor nodded, and told his husband, “I miss his companionship. I do not know if you have ever known a dwarf well, but they are beings of immense loyalty. Within his lifetime, Narvi went from truly despising me and everything I do, to trusting me not just with his life, but with the secrets of his kind, their language and their craft. Those, I carry still within me, and have never shared and never will. But it’s more than that. He was one of the only people I have ever known who knew me for myself. Narvi had little care for my family, for my titles. He only cared what I could do with my hands, and with my mind. It was liberating, to be known. I miss having someone to test myself against, who had both the skill of a master and the competitiveness of an apprentice. I- well, you know how it is, I think. Did you miss Elrond?”

Gil-galad gave him a smile of understanding. “Aye, as you well know. He was the brother of my heart, and, as it turned out, in other ways as well.” This reference to Maedhros as their shared father, foster to Elrond and step to Gil-galad, made Celebrimbor grin. “He never failed to question me, to test my mind and wit.”

“And did you love him?”

Gil-galad spent longer at this question that Celebrimbor expected. It had been intended as a small sort of payback, for Gil-galad’s earlier vague non-sequitur. “I see what you mean,” Gil-galad eventually said. After a breath, he continued, “I think I could have loved him, if we had met differently, in circumstances better or worse. But, as I suspect you were trying to suggest earlier, that doesn’t especially matter to me now. Because you are, as always, the love of my life, holder of my heart.”

Celebrimbor gave his husband a slightly soot-stained kiss, and banished him from the forge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is coming out on December 25th, so Merry Christmas to all my christians, lapsed christians and resigned non-christians. I'm normally more of a Narvi/Celebrimbor person, so the Celebrimbor in the Dawn 'verse has always been a bit of a weird one for me. This short was part of me trying to explore his character and history more, and I liked it so much I wanted to share.


	4. Finrod and Caranthir Have a Talk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Originally titled Finrod makes Caranthir Get a Job, and is exactly what it sounds like. Set in the Third Age shortly after Caranthir comes back to life.

Caranthir had only been alive for three months when Finrod arrived to institute himself in his new role as a pain in Caranthir’s ass. 

“Look, cousin,” Finrod said, opening the window of Caranthir’s home in Tirion to let in the sunlight. “You can’t just sit here the rest of your life and pretend you’re dead. If not for my peace of mind, then for your mother’s.”

It was, in fact, for Nerdanel’s peace of mind that Caranthir was currently living in a small home in Tirion that had once belonged to Curufin, as opposed to staying with her on her small country estate. Not, of course, that this choice was the best for Finrod’s peace of mind. It could not have been easy for him, having to manage the fallout of the return of an ill-favoured cousin who he didn’t even like. Particularly given that other, better members of the family- Fingon, Amrod, Amras, Angrod, Galadriel, to name a few- remained in death or exile. Caranthir said none of this. 

“Don’t you have a hobby?” Finrod continued. “I mean, what did you do in Beleriand?” He stopped, probably realizing what a terrible question that was. A look of horror crossed his face.

“For your information,” Caranthir told him, “I spent very little of my time in Beleriand slaying kin or committing other treasons. That was my brothers’ task. I mostly traded with the Dwarves and Men of the area and accumulated ludicrous amounts of wealth. Not that any of that matters now, I suppose.”

“I did not know you were a friend to Aulë’s children.”

“As Maedhros was ever so fond of reminding us, ‘if they are not with the enemy, then they are our friends’. Worked out better for me than for him, I suppose.” Caranthir did not bother to elaborate on that statement. Maedhros’s loses, numerous and various, were not his story to tell. 

“Few of your family’s followers would have counted men among their friends, surely?”

Caranthir snorted. “Shows what you know, Finrod Friend-of-Men. Maglor, Maedhros and I all counted various groups of men among our followers. It was hard enough to hold against the enemy with them, let alone had it only been us and our followers.”

“Perhaps,” Finrod said slyly, “There is a great deal about the history of Beleriand that I do not know. “

“There’s a lot you don’t know, Felagund. That’s probably why you’re always on about that fool university of yours.” Caranthir did not actually know if Finrod was always on about that university of his, or if it had merely been the topic of conversation the last two times he had seen his golden cousin. But it seemed a safe assumption, and Finrod’s reaction revealed the truth of the matter.

Finrod was quick to retort, “While such things may be beneath Fëanor’s house, I am of the line of Indis, and we believe in sharing knowledge, not coveting it.”

Caranthir threw back his head and laughed, causing Finrod to stare wide eyed at him. Caranthir had not realized how greatly he had missed Finrod until just then. “I was beginning to think you had lost your spirit in Gorthaur’s clutches. It is a relief to know you have not.”

“Well,” Finrod said pettily, “If I had it would be all the fault of your family anyhow, as these things usually are.”

Caranthir stood, and crossed over to Finrod. He clapped a hand to Finrod’s back, but offered no apology for the sins of his brothers. Together, they looked out the window onto the busy streets of Tirion. It was not the Tirion of Caranthir’s earliest memories, for now instead of Noldor, interspersed with Teleri and Vanya, the population of Tirion was at least half Teleri, possibly more. He wondered how much of that was a product of Finarfin’s kingship, and how much was a result of the number of Noldor who had died in Beleriand and stayed there. 

“Why did it have to be you?” Finrod asked, plaintively. A Teleri shopkeeper struck up an argument with a young Elleth, and their voices rose together over the din, a cacophony of pettiness. 

“It shouldn’t have been.” Caranthir told him. “Curufin is wasting away without the ability to work, to think, to craft. For all his sins, Maedhros was always better than I. Kinder, more generous, and a stronger bulwark against the enemy. And loath as I am to admit it, Fingon was better than any of my family. If any of us deserve to walk freely, it’s him. And he certainly would not bother you half as much. 

Finrod shook his head. “I don’t mean that, Caranthir. I’m glad you’re here. And certainly you’re less trouble than Curufin would have been. Don’t ever think that you don’t deserve to be here. I just meant that there was little peace between us, in our youth. So it seems ironic in a way, that we’re what’s left. Fay Findaráto, with his poetry and his head in the clouds, and moody Morifinwë, who has no patience for his cousin’s hopelessly romantic nature.”

“I always liked Artanis better,” Caranthir told him, truthfully. 

“Me too,” Finrod replied, and they laughed together. Below them, the Elleth punched the Teleri shopkeeper hard in the jaw, and stormed off before he even hit the ground. 

Turning from the window, Finrod made his way into Caranthir’s small kitchen, and went through the cabinets. Caranthir followed him, and opened a drawer at waist level to reveal three rows of small containers of teas and tisanes. Since Finrod was clearly not going anywhere, Caranthir made tea for the both of them, and they returned to sit by the window. 

“You must miss her,” Caranthir said conversationally, once they were again seated. 

Finrod looked into his tea. “I do, a great deal. And more so because I believe she would return to us, given the chance. But don’t think I don’t see your tactic. I’m missing a fraction of what you are. If I feel as I do, you must feel torn apart at the seams.”

“I’m a ball of thread,” Caranthir told him. “It is not so much that I have been torn apart at the seams as that I’m nothing but seams.”

“And you call me a poet. So why do you think you’re here?”

Caranthir considered this for a time before he replied, “I am here because it’s where I need to be. I wasn’t healing anymore, there. I- I think I need to be here to take the next step, whatever it is. Apologies, maybe? Maybe I just need to live.”

“Maybe,” Finrod said slyly, again, “you have a story to tell.”

Caranthir looked him right in the eye, and said, wholeheartedly, “damn you Felagund.”

After this, it would be more than a century before Caranthir would begin to pursue scholarship in earnest. But he did pursue it. In the beginning, he was secretive, writing texts under a pseudonym, painting miniature portraits of the historical figures he had known for inclusion in scholarly texts by others. The first text he published under his own name was a biography of Haleth. It received wide praise for its content, and wide criticism for its author. But Caranthir, who was by this juncture not the only son of Fëanor left standing, persevered. He wrote, more biographies, a tome called Trade and Economics in Beleriand. But he knew what he would have to write, one day, and it weighed on him. For it was to be the duty of Caranthir to tell the story of his family, as it had once been Maglor’s duty to write the Noldolantë, it now fell to Caranthir to write a more factual telling of the lives of his brothers. The bad, and, through it all, the good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone talk to me about Finrod who is literally the sweetest, and Caranthir who is like a coconut in that he has a hard outside but if you crack him open he is full of potential. I mean who names their kid 'Red-faced' and also 'Dark'? Poor Caranthir, with his brothers, Hot and Handsome.


	5. In Which Finarfin is Highly Amused

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finarfin's children are all weirdos with strange senses of humour. Fortunately, he is also a weirdo with a strange sense of humour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout out to Phyna for putting this idea in my brain!

Arafinwë hid his face in his wine glass so nobody could see him laughing. The cause of his significant amusement was, as always, his children. Today, specifically, Artanis and Findaráto. When told to bring someone to this dinner- this important, political, dinner- he had rather assumed he would get Amarië and Celebrían. But that had been several months ago, when the dinner was first being planned, and Artanis had someone else to bring to political events. Her husband, Celeborn. Since Amarië had actually received her own invitation, Findaráto was under no obligation to bring her as his plus one. Thus, in what was no doubt an effort to draw attention away from Artanis, he’d brought Caranthir as his plus one. 

“He gets this from your part of the family,” Eärwen whispered. She sat to his left, while Nolofinwë was at his right hand. 

“I think he means well,” Nolofinwë returned. He was in no position to judge people for having their children bring Fëanor’s sons to parties. Fingon had brought Maedhros in full seriousness, after all, while Aredhel had skipped the event entirely, no doubt instead spending the evening, as she spent most of her time, with Celegorm. 

“It’s Ingo, he always means well,” Eärwen agreed, “but what he means and what he accomplishes are sometimes very different things. Arafinwë- you should go make the rounds, greet people.”

Nolofinwë stood, pushing his chair back. “Oh, I’ll go. It’s no trouble.” Thank the Valar for Nolofinwë. 

Eärwen kicked Arafinwë under the table. “Get it together, Arafinwë. It’s not that funny, it’s just- oh dear.”

Artanis and Findaráto had converged in the center of the room, trailing their reluctant companions and an amused-looking Amarië behind them. Celeborn and Caranthir seemed to size each other up, with Caranthir eventually extending a hand for the taller elf to shake. Arafinwë’s children leant in close and whispered to one another. Then Amarië said something, and in perfect synchronicity, they looked towards Maedhros and Fingon. 

Maedhros and Fingon were holding their own against an assortment of the lords and ladies of the court. By in large, the Teleri were avoiding them entirely, or giving Maedhros dirty looks. They rarely made public appearances, though Arafinwë had suggested to Fingon more than once that they ought to. Maedhros was very shy, these days, a contrast to the confident, politically savvy child Arafinwë remembered. Fëanáro wouldn’t have been happy, but Maedhros seemed to be, and that was good enough. 

Amarië pulled something out of her corset and approached Maedhros and Fingon. She handed it to him, and Eärwen and Arafinwë watched Fingon count the coins out into his palm. He clearly asked her what it was for, but over the din of the party, they couldn’t hear her answer. Whatever it was, it made Maedhros blush furiously. 

“A bet, do you think?” Eärwen asked, speculatively. 

“Almost certainly. I wonder what it was on?”

“With that look on Maedhros’s face, it has to have been about him. Most conspicuous person at the party, maybe?” She paused, and then, with a small gasp of understanding said, “Oh, no- it’s who brought the most conspicuous date- Celeborn and Caranthir were good attempts, but there’s no beating Maedhros.”

“Well, perhaps that’ll teach those hooligans of ours to behave, if they keep losing money on it.”

Eärwen snorted in an un-ladylike fashion. “It’s like you don’t even know them! Artanis hates being beaten. If they have the competition again, she’ll find a way to bring your brother or something- just watch!”

Arafinwë’s laugh could be heard all across the hall.


	6. Fëanor and Arafinwë's Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fëanor is a bastard, but he's learning. Arafinwë is everyone's favourite sibling, and is impossible not to like. They talk it out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're baffled by my use of Sindarin/Quenya names in this chapter and in this series generally, check the end notes.

Arafinwë tapped his hands on the arms of his chair. He hadn’t felt so strongly like a young boy about to be chastised for centuries. Fëanor gave him an owlish stare, tilting his head slightly. He didn’t blink, which was slightly disconcerting. Arafinwë could feel the crown weighing on his head, as heavy as it had been the first day he’d worn it. He adjusted it, even though he knew that it was on perfectly straight. He only succeeded in making it crooked.

“Here, let me,” Fëanor said. He leant over, and adjusted the crown with the same intense focus he gave every other task in his life. Then he leant back, checked his work, and turned the crown slightly. 

“Thank you,” Arafinwë said, awkwardly.

“It suits you,” Fëanor told him, which was as close as he was ever likely to come to admitting that Arafinwë deserved his position. They returned to contemplating each other, but something was different now, something fundamental had changed. It took Arafinwë a second to notice it, but there it was. The corner of Fëanor’s lip had turned up, in a small smile. 

“It’s good to see you,” Arafinwë tried, as a conversation starter. 

Fëanor shook his head. “No, it isn’t, but I appreciate your kindness.”

There was never any lying to Fëanor. Social courtesies annoyed him. “Not especially, to be honest. Frankly, you’ve caused me nothing but trouble.”

Fëanor sighed, which was a surprise, and apologized, which was even more so. “I am sorry, Arafinwë. I never meant to cause you grief. I never meant to cause anyone grief.”

“Except our brother.”

For once, Fëanor didn’t object to referring to Nolofinwë as such. “I don’t know that. At my worst- at my worst, I don’t know where I ended, and the enemy’s manipulation began.”

Arafinwë couldn’t imagine that, not being able to see a clear line between yourself, and the monsters that haunted you. But he’d seen it before in others, many times. He had seen it in Maedhros, who was once as confident as his father, and now clung to those he loved for support. He saw it in his own children. For all they pretended to be unaffected, the nightmares of Arda Marred had scarred them just as they had his brothers’ children. In this regard, Galadriel was very like her uncle, for all she wouldn’t want to hear it. Arafinwë had heard her speak of the darkness she had carried, the evils she hds seen and felt. He wondered, briefly, if she might want to talk to Fëanor about that. 

“I’m sorry.” Arafinwë told him, pointlessly. 

Fëanor cocked his head at him. “What,” he asked, “could you possibly have to apologize to me for?”

“I’m sorry that I didn’t notice anything was wrong. I’m sorry I let everything happen. I didn’t act, and I’ll carry that with me forever.”

Fëanor made a pained noise in the back of his throat. “Don’t you dare think that’s your fault. Arafinwë- you did the right thing. You don’t have to feel guilty that the rest of us were too stubborn to listen.”

For almost the first time ever, Arafinwë snapped at his brother. “I didn’t do anything, Fëanáro. Nothing at all. Not even for my own children.”

For a second, it looked like Fëanor might yell back. He pulled himself up to his full height, seemed poised to stand, to get in Arafinwë’s face. But he had not finished standing before something inside him seemed to give way, and he collapsed back into his seat. 

“You did something for my children.” Fëanor muttered, so low that Arafinwë almost didn’t hear him. 

“I’m sorry?”

Fëanor cleared his throat and said, “I said, ‘you did something for my children’. You made sure they were welcomed here, and- I cannot thank you enough.”

Arafinwë immediately tried to deflect. “Anyone would have done the same.”

Fëanor shook his head. “No, Arfin, they wouldn’t have. I wouldn’t have, if our situations were reversed. Nol-Fingolfin wouldn’t have. Do you know what the trouble with you is?” Fëanor didn’t wait for an answer. “You believe everyone has your innate goodness, so you assume we must be making our decisions for innately good reasons. We don’t. If Findaráto had done to Celegorm half of what Celegorm did to him, I would have- well, that doesn’t bear contemplation. Take my thanks at face value.”

Arafinwë made a second attempt. “It’s not that simple. I could have done far more for them. They remained outcasts for centuries, and I didn’t stop that. I didn’t defend them.”

“Well, they didn’t defend themselves either, or each other. So, in that respect, you’ve done no less than they would have asked of you.”

“Maedhros wouldn’t ask for a bucket of water if he was on fire, unless Fingon was there to offer it.” Arafinwë snapped. “And don’t even get me started on Curufinwë.”

Fëanor leant back with a sigh. “They may be stubborn, but you’re worse. Remind me to tell Celebrimbor he was right on the money about the respective amounts of stubbornness in each branch of this family.” Arafinwë didn’t even want to know. “I don’t know what else I can say to convince you that I’m honest in my sentiments. You ensured that Carnistir was not lonely, and that Maedhros always knew he was welcome. By rights, you should have thrown the lot of them out of your kingdom, back to Mandos or merely Formenos. I would have, if I were you. Well, I suppose to do that, I would have had to not be you. Our father would have done that, Fingolfin would have done that. But you didn’t, and I love you for it.”

Arafinwë didn’t think Fëanor had told him he loved him before. Ever. “Who are you, and what did you do to my brother?” 

Fëanor smiled, embarrassed, and looked down to his hands. “I killed Fëanáro, through my own stupidity and ignorance. As for who I am- I don’t really know yet. I’m working on it. But I am your brother. That, I’m certain of.”

There was another thing Fëanor had never told him before. “Well, in that case, I look forward to getting to know you.”

Fëanor looked back up at him, and his grin was radiant. He had always seemed a distant figure to Arafinwë, who was far younger. If pressed, Arafinwë might have described Fëanor as emotional but cold. Now, he could see the warmth in Fëanor, not just distant light, like that contained in his gems. Fëanor opened his arms, as though testing the waters, and Arafinwë leant into his brother’s embrace. 

“I’m sorry I was such an awful brother.” Fëanor murmured. “Is there something I can do to make it up to you?”

Arafinwë considered this. “If Galadriel asks you to go to a party for no apparent reason, say no. She’s trying to win a bet with Finrod. Has been for years, only they both keep losing to Fingon. In my experience, it’s better to stay out of it.”

Fëanor laughed. “I think I can do that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so here's my explanation vis-a-vis names. Mostly I use Sindarin names in this series, because Elrond would be more familiar with them, and it's my headcanon that some of Fëanor's sons (or more generally people suffered horribly in the Silmarillion) prefer them. Some perspective characters are more consistent with this than others. Fingon, for example, sometimes interjects Ereinion and Maitimo in place of Gil-galad and Maedhros. But Arafinwë is a real odd cat, because he didn't really ever speak Sindarin, and therefore probably wouldn't think of himself as Finarfin, or of his brothers as Fëanor and Fingolfin, but on the other hand, I feel like Feanor's name is so tarnished that there were probably a few centuries where nobody really spoke of him, and I think that the Sindarin version of his name has probably become almost ubiquitous. Arafinwë also uses the Sindarin variants of his children's names, because they asked him to. Also, I hate writing Fëanáro. Too many accents. I considered going with Curufinwë, but rejected it on basis of being confusing. Fëanor, for his part, has been trying to use everyone's Sindarin names because people kept asking him too, and it's better safe than sorry, right?


	7. Celegorm tells Maedhros (and Fingon)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story takes place after the end of In Moonlight, and deals with some of the unresolved plot lines there.

“I want to start by apologizing for the way I treated you and Fingon when you were first wed,” Celegorm told them. He was standing in Maedhros and Fingon’s sitting room as though he were a houseless spirit, an ominous spectre of death. This, Maedhros thought, could only be the beginning of horrible, horrible news. 

“Apology accepted.” Fingon said, benevolently, “but I have to ask, why now? It’s been centuries.”

Celegorm looked down at his hands, contemplatively. “I’ve… found a love of my own, recently. It’s made me realize what a fucking hypocrite I’ve been.”

Maedhros opened his mouth to ask what, exactly, that meant, but Fingon beat him to it. “Are you and Aredhel-“

“Oh Valar no.” Celegorm looked genuinely horrified. “Ew.”

Fingon got a gleam in his eye like a cat toying with its prey. “Are you saying there’s something wrong with my sister?”

“No- Aredhel’s lovely. But she’s my best friend, and my cousin, and she’s married and has a child who doesn’t know me or anything so that would be really weird.”

Fingon and Maedhros looked at each other, and then in unison turned to look at Celegorm, who buried his head in his hands. Because of course, they fit into all the categories Celegorm had just described as having made any relationship Celegorm and Aredhel might have, weird. 

“I can’t fucking do this.” Celegorm muttered to himself. He turned to make for the door. 

Sometimes, it could be hard to tell when Celegorm was being really sincere, and when he was making a deadpan joke at your expense. This, it appeared, was the former. 

“Wait!” Maedhros called. Celegorm stopped. “I’m sorry. We shouldn’t joke. Do you want to tell me about it in private?”

Celegorm looked Fingon up and down, cautiously. “No, he can stay. It’s not like you wouldn’t tell him the second I left anyways.”

In point of fact, Maedhros had and would keep a secret for his brothers, even from Fingon, and Fingon had and would do the same for his own siblings. It was part of how they kept the balance between their two families. They both understood where their loyalties sometimes had to lie. It was also partly how they justified keeping the secret of their relationship for so many years. After all, it was better to be someone who kept the secrets of others than someone who only kept their own secrets. 

“Do you want to sit down?” Maedhros asked. Celegorm did, and took a seat across from them. Maedhros was shocked to notice that his hands were shaking. “Would you like tea? Water? Something stronger?”

Celegorm grunted a laugh. “Let’s save something stronger until after I’ve managed to tell a vaguely coherent story, yeah?” 

Give us a minute, love, Maedhros thought at Fingon. 

“Well, I, for one, could use a glass of water,” Fingon announced. He made good time out of the room, and Maedhros knew he wouldn’t come back until he’d been given the all clear. 

“You didn’t have to do that, you know.” Celegorm muttered to Maedhros, “he’ll have to know eventually.”

“The case may be. But just because we’re married doesn’t mean we can’t have our own business. If I had to be there every time Turgon or Argon came over, I think one of them would have stabbed me by now. If it really doesn’t bother you, I can call him back, but if it does bother you- well, know that your secrets are in a good set of hands.”

Celegorm took a minute to think about it, and eventually responded, “I think I just want to do this as few times as possible.”

Maedhros could understand that. It was a problem he’d solved by making Fingon do all the talking, and he wondered briefly if Celegorm’s partner had made the same call. He touched Fingon’s mind, and gave him the all clear. 

Fingon brought water for Celegorm and Maedhros, as well as himself. Once he was seated again, they both looked at Celegorm. Fingon with curiosity, Maedhros with concern. Celegorm didn’t meet their eyes. 

“It’s Oromë.” Celegorm confessed, and in some ways, that made sense. After Aredhel, the Vala was the person with whom Celegorm spent the most time. 

“Alright.” Maedhros told him, comfortingly as he could. He wouldn’t push Celegorm with questions if he didn’t have to. “Would you like to tell us more, or do you want to leave it there.”

“Vána knows.” Celegorm muttered. Like a dam bursting, confessions began to flow one after another. “Aredhel knows too. And Amil and Atar. And Finrod. It’s- Eru knows I’m a massive hypocrite. All said and done, we kept this secret longer than you two kept yours by a good century or two. And you know, I didn’t even care about the lying, not really. I know I said I did but I think I’ve just been so angry that you had every happy ending I ever wanted, and I ended up with the idea of a future that could have been but never was. I’m sorry.” He finally stopped to breathe.

He was a hypocrite. An absolute, damnable hypocrite. But Maedhros didn’t even feel a sense of satisfaction, the way one sometimes does when they turn out to be in the right. Mostly, he just felt sad. “I forgive you.”

Celegorm buried his head in his hands again, and began to weep. Maedhros crossed to hold him. In a near-hysterical voice, Celegorm continued. “I know it wasn’t easy for you. I know that. But here you are, and you’ve managed to put your life back together, and I was just so damn jealous I could scream. Because I just knew I couldn’t have Oromë, and I wanted him so badly but it’s not just a matter of propriety, or of what elves think, right? I don’t know how we’re going to tell Oromë’s kin. It’s not just that I’m an elf, or an affair, or any of that. I’m a murderer. I’m a traitor. When they find out about us, how are they going to start treating the family? I’d like to have believed that they wouldn’t have taken it out on dad, or on you, or any of the rest of the family, but I couldn’t be sure, and neither could Oromë and Vána. It was terrifying. It’s still terrifying. I mean, what do we do if Namo or Manwe or Varda has some kind of objection? Fuck.”

Celegorm’s voice finally gave out, and he sobbed hysterically into Maedhros’s shoulder. Maedhros for once in his life, didn’t have a clue as to what to say. 

“If any of the Valar has an objection to you and Oromë, tell them where to shove it.” Fingon said, harshly. Both brothers stared at him as though he’d grown an extra head. “I’m dead serious. It’s none of their business. We’re the children of Eru, not the children of Manwe or Namo or Varda.”

“Careful,” Maedhros murmured, “that’s traitor’s talk.”

“I sound exactly like your father,” Fingon agreed, “but I’m right too. It’s not the providence of the Valar to choose these sorts of things. Life, love, and death. Those things aren’t theirs to decide. If they tell you that you can’t, tell them exactly what you think. I’ll do it for you, if you’d like. Maybe me and your father could do it together. It’d be a real family bonding moment.”

Maedhros found himself having to blink back tears. To see Fingon so much a part of their family was the sort of thing a younger, more innocent Maedhros had dreamed off. 

Celegorm, for his part, gave a watery laugh. “I’d like to see you try.”

Fingon smiled, and reached out to squeeze Celegorm’s hand. The three of them took a moment in silence, for Celegorm to compose himself and Maedhros to stop feeling so emotional over something that was half a joke anyhow. 

“So, Oromë, huh,” Maedhros finally managed. “What’s that like?”

“They were one of my best friends before we were together. And then again in the middle when we weren’t together again. In some ways, it’s not that different, you know?”

Maedhros did know. It was one of the great advantages of his relationship with Fingon. “Yes.”

“Right. So it’s not that different except, you know, with more of the other things.”

Maedhros also related to that, but, frankly, he didn’t need to think about Celegorm and Oromë doing ‘the other things’. Now or ever.

“Ew,” Fingon complained, speaking for the both of them. 

“Do they treat you well?” Maedhros asked, hoping to move on from this topic of conversation entirely. 

Celegorm rolled his eyes. “You sound like amil.” When Maedhros continued to give him a questioning look, Celegorm added. “Yes, they treat me well.”

“They had better.” Fingon said, speaking again for the both of them. The horrified look this caused on Celegorm’s face made it so Maedhros could not help but laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's the thing for this week! (yes I now have an unofficial semi-weekly posting schedule thank you for asking). Up next, more Nerdanel, a one-shot, and then, hopefully, Maeglin.


	8. Aredhel and Ecthelion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A deleted scene from chapter 3 of A New Day. Specifically, this would have appeared between Lómion and Idril’s letters.

Ecthelion met Aredhel almost by accident. They were both walking through what were technically Oromë’s woods, though Vána was tending them alone at the moment. Oromë was still missing in the aftermath of the revelation of their relationship with Celegorm. What a relief that had been to Ecthelion, who has long assumed that Celegorm was Aredhel’s first and truest love. And perhaps he was, but it was certainly not a relationship that would be progressing any time soon. 

“Well met, my lord!” Aredhel cried. She was alone, though here, under Vána’s direct protection as well as Ingwë’s ban of Eöl, she was probably as safe as anywhere. 

“My lady, fair as the day we first met, I see.” 

Aredhel grinned at him, and just for a second, Ecthelion thought he saw a hint of a blush. 

“What’s brought you out on this fine afternoon?” She asked, coming to a stop just in front of him. Her hair hung loose around her shoulders, save for a single braid that looped around from her right temple. It was secured by a pin in the shape of a dove, which Ecthelion had never seen before. 

Trying his best for suave, Ecthelion said, “nothing save my love of Arda’s beauty, which I have now seen much more of than I expected.”

Aredhel gave him a quizzical look. “You know, most people forgo flirting with those who are already married, Ecthelion, no matter the quality of the initial husband.”

“My apologies,” Ecthelion said, trying very hard to hide the red tinge of shame he could feel reaching up all the way to the tips of his ears. “Shall I change the topic so we may both save face?”

“Perhaps.”

Ecthelion looked firmly down at his feet. “How is Lómion? And where is he? I was under the impression he was still under constant supervision.”

Aredhel leant casually against a tree. “Oh, he is. I don’t trust Curufin with him yet- he’s a surprising pushover, it turns out- but he’s actually with Maedhros and Celebrimbor today. Maedhros think it’s important for him to have people to talk to about his experiences with the enemy and about being ostracized as the son of a monster. Celegorm says his father has also offered to help, but frankly I’m not sure I ever want those two to meet. Lómion may be the best smith in Valinor who has Fëanor nowhere in his lineage as master or apprentice. That can only mean they’ll challenge each other in new and terrifying ways.”

The possibility had never occurred to Ecthelion, but Aredhel was right, and it was frightening. Who knew what they might come up with?

“What a new and exciting horror. He has been back at the forge though, I gather.” Here, Ecthelion gestured up at the pin in her hair. 

Aredhel reached up to touch it. “He has. Just a little, and only with Curufin. Celebrimbor told me that it took him months after his return to be able to get back to work, and not to place too much pressure on Lómion, though that may have had more to do with the circumstances of Celebrimbor’s death than anything. He at least I suspect will be a good influence on Lómion. They’re well matched in wit, though Celebrimbor is far calmer and more collected.”

“Everybody needs a friend, in times like this,” Ecthelion said, trying to keep his voice neutral. 

Aredhel gave him a smile. “Yes, we do. I’m very grateful that you’ve been one of mine.”

Just for a second, Ecthelion saw her as he had seen her before Eöl, with a carefree grin despite the weight of everything. He remembered, in the same instant, Aredhel’s body, lying cold and dead on the stones of Gondolin. Lómion- Maeglin then- screaming for days after, crying until he had no tears left and lashing out at all those who tried to calm him. They’d stopped reaching out soon after, failing the boy to lengths nobody would fully understand for decades. So many mistakes, so many regrets- no more.

“Aredhel, I think you should know that I would be interested in being more than a friend. Not just in jest, and regardless of anything Eöl might have to say about it.”

Aredhel stared at him with an expression of such genuine shock that Ecthelion opened his mouth to start apologizing before she finally spoke. “Ecthelion, you are going to want things in a relationship that I can’t give you. If you’re looking for a princess, you might have better luck with Idril.”

As though Ecthelion hadn’t met Eöl, hadn’t known Maeglin, hadn’t seen them washing Aredhel’s blood off the cobblestones. As if he did not know that there were limits.

“If I only wanted a princess, I wouldn’t be asking a warrior if I could court her. Or she could court me. I am open to being courted by warriors.”

“I’ll let Argon know,” Aredhel said, so totally deadpan that it took Ecthelion a second to realize she was mocking him. 

“Please, you’re the bravest person I know by miles. The rest of them don’t hold a candle to you.” Then, because Aredhel liked a good joke, he added, “though of course I never knew Elrond’s hobbit friends and I have it on good authority that at least one of them had nerves of steel.”

She laughed, just a little. It reached her eyes, lighting them up as brightly as Laurelin. After a second, she sobered up, but the light didn’t completely leave her. Ecthelion wanted to see her laugh like that every day. 

“I don’t know if I’ll ever want to marry again. I don’t know if I would ever want more children. I do know that Lómion will always be my first priority and Celegorm will always be my second. I could never put you ahead of them.”

None of this information was particularly surprising, given everything. “Whereas I can tell you that I have far less experience in relationships than you do, positive or negative, I have no idea what to do with a child save for a couple ill-advised attempts at watching Idril, and that I value my individuality greatly. I enjoy being private at times and would probably be relieved to know that I am not the only person who gives you happiness. No offense to your brother, but if someone was so attached to me as he and Maedhros are to each other, I would have tried to peel them off with a spatula years ago.”

Aredhel laughed again. “Alright. Well, should we go on a date together at some point? Or do you have a chaperone I need to speak to before I commence courting.”

“You could try your luck with Turgon, I suppose. Alternately, however, we are out together now and I don’t see anyone who’ll stop us.”

Aredhel looked up, trying to gage the time by the position of the sun. “I have a couple hours now. And besides, if we both asked Turgon for permission to court, it would be very awkward.”

Ecthelion offered her his arm. “My lady?”

Aredhel took it. “My lord.”

They spent the next two hours in each other’s company, sharing the same quick and playful conversation they always had, but now there was something more. They both looked to the future with anticipation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do elves do casual dating? If anybody should, it’s Aredhel. She needs someone in who life who has more chill than Eöl and Lómion (Celegorm and Turgon are also Not Chill).


	9. A Kinslayer, A Traitor and a Sailor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Voronwë has stayed with Círdan for a very, very long time. Lómion is nosy. News from Valinor to Middle Earth is shoddy at best, and Caranthir breaks up a fight instead of starting one.
> 
> Alternately:
> 
> A Kinslayer, a traitor and a sailor walk into a teashop and the shopowner says ‘hi guys how is everybody doing today, can I get you anything?'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a sad boi. If you remember, Tuor in the Dawn-verse is dead and has been for a long time. This is set chronologically a couple years after A New Day.

Lómion had always been a little nosy. Well, nosy perhaps was not the right word. He was a meddler. He was involved. Now, in Valinor, he had little else to occupy his time. When he had heard that a ship was coming in from Middle Earth- as long as Círdan remained on the far shore, ships would come, no matter how few and far between- he hadn’t been able to help his curiosity. Not that he expected anyone he knew to appear, but, well, he did no harm by showing up, assuming he went unrecognized. By wearing a cloak with the hood up to hide his face and burying his head in a set of designs he was working on, he was able to sit curled under a statue of Finwë and go perfectly unnoticed. 

The crowd was of all walks of life, and of many of the elven races. Noldor, Vanyar, Teleri, Sindar, and even some Silvans. It was always surprising for Lómion to see the Moriquendi on these shores. After his father, Thingol, all their opposition to the Noldorin way of life, and now they lived among each other as equals. Or, rather, they would be equals to the Noldor if they could come to a consensus as to who, exactly, their king was in Thingol’s absence. As it stood, the Noldor had a marginally more functional government. Not, of course, that Lómion would ever be allowed to have anything to do with that. 

There was only a small number on the boat. A few silvans, a fair-haired Sindarin woman and- wait a second. 

“Voronwë?” Lómion demanded, common sense taking over a second too late as he leapt to his feet. Everybody turned to stare at him. Most of the Noldor were used to seeing kinslayers walking the streets by this point, but Lómion, who had betrayed their own for no greater purpose, was still enough to shock them. 

“Oh, hey Lómion,” one of Elrond’s sons said, from where he was standing in the crowd. Lómion could not remember his name. It had an ‘El-‘, that he was certain of. It was, he thought, the sadder one of the two. 

“Peredhel,” he greeted, in lieu of making a guess at the name. 

Voronwë, who was staring open mouthed at half the population of Tirion, flitted his glance between the two of them. 

“Oh, close your mouth, you’ll catch flies,” Lómion told him, and was pleased when Voronwë did so. “There’s a whole ‘Land of Peace’ speech. You can rely on Maedhros or Finrod to give it, from what I understand. For now, content yourself with the knowledge that Idril permitted my release.”

Voronwë nodded solemnly, and there was a second where it seemed as if they were making real progress. Then another figure emerged from the crowd and Lómion had to bite his tongue to keep from cursing. 

“Voronwë!” Egalmoth cried, and went to clasp Tuor’s friend on the shoulder. Voronwë flinched. They had never been friends before, that Lómion knew of, and had no more reason to be friendly than Lómion and Voronwë did. Less, perhaps. At least Idril had forgiven Lómion. Whatever Egalmoth had done, he was the only Lord of Gondolin who neither she nor Lómion’s mother spoke to. 

“Voronwë,” Lómion said, trying to keep his voice very calm, “I think you might find better company than Lord Egalmoth.”

“Oh yes, because we all enjoy the company of traitors, kinslayers and whores.”

Lómion went for Egalmoth, dropping all his papers in his hurry to strangle that fool, but it was the Peredhel who got there first and punched him right in the face. 

Egalmoth, who had focused all his attention on Lómion, went down like a rock. 

“You speak about my mother that way again-” Voronwë caught Lómion with an arm around him and held him back. 

“Idiot,” said a Vanya in the crowd. “Did you not pay attention at the meeting with the Valar? We all spend time with kinslayers. Manwë’s teeth! You were at Alqualondë too.”

This set everybody talking at once, though fortunately they seemed as focused on Egalmoth as they were on Lómion. Voronwë was still holding him tightly, though when Lómion stopped straining towards Egalmoth, he let go.

“Good to see you again,” Lómion told him, almost conversationally. “Or, well, Idril will be pleased at any rate and that’s something.”

“I thought I heard trouble,” said a voice. Lómion turned to scan the crowd and spotted Caranthir. He stopped for a moment to pick up Lómion’s work and flipped through it.

“Stop that,” Lómion ordered, though Caranthir paid him no mind. 

“Elrohir, what, exactly, is going on here?’

Elrohir, apparently, shrugged. “Egalmoth called our family- what was it my lord? – ‘traitors, kinslayers and whores’? Lómion and I took some offense. Voronwë, meanwhile, is still becoming acclimatized to Valinor, I believe.”

Caranthir gave Egalmoth a look of complete disdain. “Not the time, nor the place, Egalmoth, and only two of those accusations are fair- though I suppose Finwë did marry twice as much as the average elf, and without the consent of his previous wife, so maybe the stain of his harlotry taints the rest of us. Do you suppose such a thing could be in the blood?”

He turned this last question on the crowd at large, who immediately all started talking at once again. The Vanya who had commented before laughed cheerfully at Caranthir’s joke.

“Your brother-” Egalmoth began, which was all he could say before Caranthir was suddenly standing very, very close to him. 

“Choose your next words carefully, Egalmoth, and remember that I was Morifinwë Carnistir for a reason. I would hate for any of us to have to bother Prince Finrod about such a trivial matter, but, well, if we did, I suspect he might take some offence to the characterization of his family as ‘traitors, kinslayers and whores’.”

Egalmoth had the good sense to shut up and be off. In a way, Lómion pitied him. Like Lómion in Gondolin, his inability to face his trauma had left Egalmoth deeply unhappy and lonely. He didn’t deserve that. Nobody deserved to be alone with the ghosts that haunted them. 

When Egalmoth was gone, Voronwë finally managed to say, “I’m sorry, what is happening?”

He said this in Sindarin, which was approximately when Lómion and the others realized that he, being newly arrived and not Noldorin to begin with, probably spoke little Quenya. 

Elrohir, whose Sindarin was the most modern of the lot of them, said, “Egalmoth has offered some insult to our family, on more than one occasion now. On this particular occasion, he most notably mentioned that we were ‘whores’, which was a fairly thinly veiled insult at Lady Aredhel. I took more offense to the repeated insults he has offered my grandfather, but his underlying fear and resentment of our family is part and parcel of both insults. It used to be only the Fëanorions, but Lady Idril was offended by the first instant of his insults, dismissed him in turn, and the fight has only been growing to encompass the rest of us since. Now, I actually have somewhere to be. Are you three alright if I leave you? Lómion, how’s your Sindarin?”

“Slightly archaic, yet functional,” Lómion returned, in the same language, and then grimaced at how slowly he was speaking. 

In Quenya, Caranthir said, “I haven’t spoken much Sindarin in years, but with Lómion translating, I’m sure we’ll get by. I understand better than I speak it, thank Aulë.”

“I feel the same about Quenya,” Voronwë replied, shifting the language back again. “Now, I did try to send word I was coming, but I can’t imagine Tuor sent you three to meet me, so, what happened?”

He didn’t know. Eru. Somewhere out there, the Valar were laughing at Lómion. When Vána found out about this, that statement would probably be literal. This was universal payback for Lómion’s own assumption that Tuor was still alive. 

“Voronwë,” he said, with all the courage he’d ever had, “I think we need to have this conversation somewhere private.”

What poor Voronwë must have thought, being dragged into the back room of a tiny teashop owned by the sister of one of Caranthir’s history students. The young Teleri business owner didn’t so much as blink at the sight of a historical hero being dragged around by a traitor and a kinslayer. Well, this was Valinor. She’d almost certainly seen stranger. Caranthir stayed out front, to chat with her and drink his tea. 

“Voronwë,” Lómion half-whispered, once they two were alone, “I think you should sit down.”

Voronwë didn’t sit. “Maeglin, what did you do to him?”

It took Maeglin- Lómion he was Lómion- great effort not to twitch in reaction to the name. It had been perceptive of his mother to refuse to call him by his father-name, and more perceptive of Finrod to guess that the name was a trigger for much of his self-loathing and traumatic memories. That was the name his father had called him, after more than a decade of refusing to name him at all. It was the name Morgoth had laughed over as he’d tormented Lómion, the name Idril had shouted accusatorily in the seconds before his death. It had been the name on his mother’s lips at hers, the old name between them long forbidden like the tongue in which it was spoken. 

“For once, I am innocent in all matters related to Tuor. Well, I suppose I have befriended Maedhros to some degree, which he might have perceived as an insult, but Idril and Eärendil have done the same so that isn’t on me.”

Voronwë quirked his head and repeated, “Maeglin, what did you do? And what do you mean by ‘might have’?”

It took everything in Lómion not to snap at him about the name. He kept his voice calm. “He’s gone, Voronwë. Took Eru’s gift. Years, centuries before I ever stepped foot in Valinor. You can ask Idril if you don’t believe me. Or Eärendil or Turgon. Whoever pleases you.”

Voronwë dissolved before him. His tears were almost hysterical, so heavy that he began to choke on his own breath. If this was panic, Lómion might have tried to lead him through one of Maedhros’s breathing exercises, but it wasn’t. It was grief. Plain and simple. Or, really, neither plain nor simple. Grief like a thousand knives to a heart and a hundred lashes and a million arrows fired all at once. Grief like nothing. Like leaves stripped from trees and snow lying heavy on every conceivable surface. Grief like snow so wet it broke branches and left trees lopsided in odd ways that never really healed. 

Lómion stuck his torso out the door and waved aggressively to catch Caranthir’s attention. “Idril. Now.”

Caranthir nodded, paid the proprietor more than she was probably owed, thanked her pleasantly, and left the shop in a run. Lómion pulled back inside to discover Voronwë leaning hard against a wall, shaking. He guided the poor idiot into a chair, trying to touch as little as possible. Oddly, Voronwë didn’t seem to shy away from his touch. 

“Do you want a hug?” Lómion asked, trying and utterly failing to be natural about it. 

Voronwë nodded, and allowed Lómion to hold him tightly. His tears and snot soaked Lómion’s cloak, which was disgusting, but at least Voronwë seemed to be calming down. If only there had been someone to hold Lómion like this after his mother had died. After his time with Morgoth. For a long time, he had wanted Idril’s love, romantically, to fill that void in his life, but perhaps, like Voronwë at this moment, all he had really needed was someone who understood to hold him tight.

“It hurts,” Voronwë said. The first words he’d spoken since learning of Tuor’s death. As appropriate as any.

Lómion nodded. “I know. You learn to live with it. But for now, it hurts. Best to let it out. And then you can hit something. Not me. Please. That always helps me anyways. I think it’s why I like the forge so much.”

He was rambling, but it made Voronwë choke out a watery laugh between sobs, which almost made the embarrassment worth it.

As Voronwë began to settle, tears running out and sobs becoming dry and silent, Lómion pulled a chair up beside him and rubbed slow circles into his back. This was how Idril found them, almost an hour later. Seeing Voronwë, she began to cry as well, but the soft, almost happy sort of tears. For a second, Lómion thought she would embrace Voronwë and he could be on his way, but instead she pulled them both close, burying her head in Voronwë’s shoulder and a fist in Lómion’s hair.

“I’m sorry,” Voronwë whispered, throat sounding dry, “I should have been here.”

“Yes, you should have,” Idril returned, “I missed you.” Lómion knew her well enough now to know that she was more sad than angry.

Voronwë continued. “Was Tuor very angry with me?”

Idril actually shook him, which had the unfortunate side effect of shaking Lómion as well. “Tuor loved you, Voronwë. He loved you. Was he angry that he didn’t get to see you again? Yes. Yes, he was and so am I. Did he love you any less because you had obligations in Middle Earth? No. No, he did not, and neither do I. We both forgave you a long time ago.”

“I wasted so much time. I thought- I thought he would be here.”

And there was not much for Idril to say to that beyond, “so did I.”

The best friend, the wife, and the nemesis held each other, and for a moment were nothing but allies against the forces of loss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know who you are who inspired me to write this. Don’t think I don’t blame you for the fact that Voronwë in this story is sad. Because I do. I do blame you. Much. But I’m also grateful because I think this story is important even if it’s sad, so thanks.


	10. Idril’s Surprise (and Celegorm’s)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Idril gets some surprising news, Celegorm and Oromë have a late night conversation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holiday prevented new chapter of Marred But Remade. Writing is done, editing... not so much. I’m probably gunna skip a week, for the sake of my sanity, and resume next friday. Sorry! This is your consolation prize.

Gil-galad looked from Idril to Lómion, then shot a glance over to Celebrimbor. Having just finished a long monologue, Idril reached over to retrieve her glass of water from the table, drank, and placed it back, all in complete silence.

“What I don’t understand,” Celebrimbor said, slowly and deliberately, “is why you’re telling us of all people.”

Idril threw her hands up in despair. “Well, who else was I going to tell? Eärendil already knows, and nobody else gets how weird this feels for me.”

“Do we get how weird this feels for you?” Lómion said. He was always less quiet around Idril. 

“Well how would you feel if your parents decided to have more children three ages later?” Idril demanded, quick as a whip. 

Lómion shrugged helplessly. He had extenuating parental circumstances. 

“I have Elrond,” Gil-galad offered, “Does he count?”

Idril sunk into her seat in despair, mumbling, “I hate all of you.”

Celebrimbor reached over to pat her on the shoulder. “If it is any consolation, I think all of us would find it very weird. Do you think it makes it more or less weird that Finrod and Amarië are planning the same thing?”

“More,” Gil-galad and Lómion said at exactly the same time. Lómion offered Gil-galad a shy grin, when he realized what they’d done. 

In many ways, Gil-galad actually liked Lómion. He had not expected to, but then, he had not expected to love Celebrimbor, so perhaps expectations were rarely the best metric to go upon. Lómion, like Celebrimbor had before he and Gil-galad had gotten together, was coming to terms with the darkness in his blood. It was a brutal thing for anyone to be faced with, but all things considered, Lómion was handling it with remarkable dignity. 

“Do you think anyone else will follow suit?” Gil-galad asked, to change the topic. 

Lómion, with a look oddly like pride, said, “not my parents.”

“Nor mine,” agreed Celebrimbor, though he did not look nearly so pleased about it, “And not Nerdanel and Fëanor either. I would not put it past them, but I think they would have a mutiny on their hands if they decided to. And besides, they already named one last-Finwë. That rather puts a stop to the whole thing.”

“Didn’t stop your father,” Idril pointed out, a clear reference to Celebrimbor’s unfortunately inherited father name, ‘Curufinwë’. 

“Might not stop Celegorm,” said Lómion, quietly. Everybody turned to stare. “What? I mean, think about it. Him and Lord Oromë haven’t officially been together long, and we do know that such things are possible. Granted, I hardly see Celegorm as the parental sort, but-”

“He did fine by me,” Celebrimbor interrupted. “No, it is not half so implausible as any of my other uncles would be. Given that Caranthir and Ambarussa are perpetual bachelors, Maglor and my father are firmly separated from their respective wives, and Maedhros is married to Gil’s father-”

“Celegorm, last hope of the house of Fëanor,” Lómion quipped, having entirely too much fun.

Idril leant over to sneak her glass of water off the table. “A toast, to the tragic yet fortunate failure of Fëanor’s line.”

\--

Celegorm’s nightmares were what had woken them. They were rarer now than they had been, just after his return, but sometimes they still appeared when he least expected them. Always the same. His hands moving without his control. Hurting Oromë. Hurting Aredhel. Hurting Lómion. Lúthien’s furious eyes staring up at him from all their faces, her (justified) hatred of Celegorm spreading, and all of his world collapsing into fire and death. Oromë had shaken him awake, and they had begun the usual ritual of quiet conversation, which had since been going on for half an hour.

“Have you ever thought about children?” Celegorm said. Oromë, from where they were lying at his side, pushed themselves up on their arms to stare at Celegorm. 

“In what sense?”

“In the having them sense. With me, or Vána. It isn’t a trick question, I’m genuinely curious.” He ran a hand through Oromë’s hair, which was at that moment midlength and the colour of fresh snow. Almost like Celegorm’s own hair. 

Oromë shrugged their shoulders evenly, and snuggled closer to Celegorm. “Vána and I thought about it. ‘Save our marriage’. That was the theory, anyway. But that was before I discovered the Quendi, so as you can imagine, being a child would have been excruciatingly dull. Especially here. If we were minor Maiar, maybe, but the child of two Valar would have been isolated from them also.”

“How would the Quendi have made the child of two Valar less isolated?” 

“You say that as though you and your siblings wouldn’t have played with a child-Vala. Your father would have thought it your right, if nothing else.”

Well, Oromë had the House of Fëanor pegged there. “And then with me?”

Oromë reached up and pressed a gentle kiss to Celegorm’s lips. “For the record, I think you would be an excellent father. But I’m not sure what my shapeshifting would do to a child. What makes you ask?”

“Turgon and Elenwë have decided they want another child, and family gossip has it that Finrod and Amarië are finally going to be starting their own brood, much to Uncle Arafinwë’s relief. It just got me thinking. Turgon, Finrod and I were all fairly close in age. It just sort of seemed right.”

There was a long pause, perhaps an hour or more, during which Celegorm dozed off under Oromë’s solid weight. When he awoke again, sunlight was streaming in through the window, and Oromë was perched at the sill in the Vanya form she had adopted at their reunion. Celegorm stood, slowly, and moved to stand at her side. 

“Estë would know,” Oromë said. Her voice was oddly cold, and closer examination showed that she was gripping the sill so hard her knuckles turned white. 

“What would Estë know?” Celegorm went to massage the tension from Oromë’s shoulders, and smiled when she relaxed into him. 

“Estë would know if it were possible for me to carry a child without keeping one form for the duration.”

“Aye, I imagine she would.” Celegorm felt Oromë flinch, almost imperceptibly, and pulled her into a gentle hug. He lowered his voice almost to a whisper. “Do not think that our family is not enough, just as it is. Do not think I will love you any the less if the answer is ‘no’, from Estë or from you. It is not my body.”

“You and your personal growth,” Oromë muttered, with fake bitterness. There were tears and laughter both in her voice. 

Celegorm, both to demonstrate that he was in some ways the same person he had always been, and to make Oromë almost shriek with laughter, swept her off her feet in one smooth motion, and carried her back to bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope it was a good consolation prize. It reminds me of that joke, the one where it’s like “And then God said, come forth and receive eternal life!
> 
> But John came fifth and won a toaster.”
> 
> I hope this isn’t the toaster. (Because God knows that chapter of Marred ain’t eternal life. Unless you’re, like, Lúthien. It might be her view of eternal life.)


	11. What Happens After?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Idril, Caranthir and Maedhros debate the future, Finduilas appears, as do two special guests.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There’s crying and sad feelings and grief here. Idril talks pretty openly about feeling depressed. Look after yoselves first friends.

“What do you believe happens at the end of everything? What do you believe happens after?”

It was grim conversation for a party, but it was late, and Idril was drunk, and the words had seemed like a good idea before she had finished saying them.

Maedhros, sitting across the table from her, gave an indeterminate shrug. “I see little of the future. You’d do better to ask my mother. Or Galadriel.”

Caranthir, at his brother’s side, looked morosely into the bottom of his empty glass. “Nothing,” he said. 

“I think he means the drink,” Maedhros added, softening the ominous statement some. 

Idril sighed. Fëanorions. They were inescapable, but she found she didn’t mind. “Not visions. I mean, beliefs. There is a certain point after which no seer can see, where even Vairë and Námo’s eyes fail them. What do you believe happens after that?”

Maedhros gave the room a slow sweep before answering. “Some say that those who have already passed, will, you know, reappear.”

“They also say your father won’t be back until the end,” Idril pointed out. “You know how that turned out.”

They all three shot a glance at Fëanor, sitting at Arafinwë’s side and speaking animatedly to he and Nerdanel. 

Caranthir stared for a while into empty space. “I hope the mortals are back. Aulë’s children at least. Elves are…”

“Boring,” Idril said, with feeling. “Elves, elves, elves. Lómion is the most interesting person I speak to by a mile, if only because he is different enough from the rest of us, being raised Moriquendi. There are few enough even of the Silvan and Sindarin elves on these shores. It is Noldor, Vanyar, Teleri, everywhere, and they three not nearly as different as they think.”

Maedhros gave her a hurt look. “There are worse things in this world than boring, Idril.”

He was right, and a sober Idril would have left it there. Unfortunately, sober, she was not. “Even if I did not get Tuor back, I should like to speak to somebody I had not spoken to a hundred times before. Elves, left to our own devices, move so slowly. There has not been a technological advance in Valinor since Fëanor invented the silmarils. It is unbearable.”

“There’s-” Maedhros said, and then seemed to reconsider. “No, that was invented in Gondolin. I’m sure there must be something, but at the moment I can’t think of a single one that isn’t just building on or combining technology invented somewhere in Beleriand.”

“And that,” Idril told him, “is why the gift of men is still considered a gift. Or that was what Tuor always said. The gift of men lets them move on, lets them live in time as it is, not time as we feel it.”

Caranthir nodded. “At least with Atar back, someone around here does something, but it is still so little. And we will spend millennia like this. Not that the peace is not a relief, after so much war, but I miss the spirit of men. And I miss Haleth.”

Idril had read Caranthir’s biography of Haleth- who hadn’t? – but there was a world of difference between that scholarly work and the sadness on his face now. 

Maedhros leant back in his chair. “I have heard it said that they will return before the battle, to fight at our side. Some of them, anyways. The Númenóreans-”

“And Túrin.”

They all three turned to stare at Finduilas. She dropped into the seat beside Idril, swirling her wine around in her glass. She had been one of the last to return from Mandos, and though they all knew why, none of them spoke of it. It was her choice to make, just as Maedhros got to decide who joked about Thangorodrim, and Idril and Eärendil got to choose when people discussed Tuor around them. 

“Finduilas,” Caranthir greeted, with something like a smile on his face. “You seek strange company tonight.”

“I seek strange company every day in this family, it seems to me. If it is not kinslayers then it is those renowned as heroes, or it is half elves. There is no escaping the strangeness, save a retreat back into Mandos.”

“And we cannot have that!” Maedhros cried, amused. “So, strangeness it must be then.”

Finduilas nodded. “Strangeness indeed. I hadn’t decided with whom to speak, for these strange people are mostly as strangers to me, even those I once knew best, but I heard your topic, and it is one of some interest to me, as you might imagine.”

“I understand,” Idril said, and meant it. Finduilas was like her, in some ways, and Idril knew the love and loss of mortals better than any other elf, save their kinsman Aegnor. “So, tell us Finduilas, what do you believe?”

“Well,” Finduilas said, with the air of someone who had given the topic a great deal of thought, “if anyone would come back from beyond the world to fight a vastly superior enemy, Túrin would be as likely a candidate as any. And I will say this, about Túrin. He was never boring!” 

Maedhros shook his head. “By all accounts I have heard, never that. So, you believe it is true, for him at least. Do you think any others will return?”

Finduilas opened her mouth, closed it, and looked down at her hands. “Well, they cannot all return, can they? It would be too many people to all live in the world at once.”

Caranthir put his head down on the table. Maedhros leant softly against him. Mumbling, Caranthir turned to look up at his brother. “She is right, you know.”

He lay his head back on the table. Maedhros, rubbing a comforting hand across his shoulder said. “Come on, Moryo. You’ve had enough.” With an apologetic look at Idril and Finduilas, he lifted Caranthir to his feet, and led him away. 

“I did not know he was grieving,” Finduilas muttered, under her breath.

“Most do not. I do not think I fully understood until tonight that he loved Haleth.”

Finduilas looked into her wine, and did not speak for a long time. “I understand that he was the first of his brothers to return to life.”

Idril had not considered that angle. “Yes, he was. How he did it, we may never know.”

Finduilas looked up at her. “How did you do it, Idril?”

Idril drained all her wine, and then said, “let us move this conversation outside.”

On the balcony, they were mostly alone. Only a handful of Sindar were outside, and they were at the opposite end of the balcony, sharing a bottle of wine and talking about archery. Idril tuned them out. 

“I did not ‘do’ anything. I remained. I stayed. I lived with my parents for more than a decade and relied on them to get me out of bed every morning. I froze in time at the moment Tuor died, and did not move forward at more than a glacial speed. I survived because I had always done so before. It was not until Elrond arrived here that I really began to experience life again. His refusal to deny his Fëanorion heritage challenged me, more than anything or anyone had in years. Spending time with Maedhros, and later Celegorm, made me look at the world differently. If there was more yet to see, and do, and learn, then maybe there was a point to my still being here. Tuor and I were both adventurers, at heart, though the last adventure he chose was one I could not choose with him. But there is more still to see and do here, and knowing that helps. If I was not here, I could not have ever forgiven Lómion, I could not ever have seen Voronwë again. It is not enough, but it is not without worth either. Seeing worth in things that are not him was one of the ways I knew I was healing. I did not see worth in much else for a very long time.”

Finduilas bowed her head. “I miss him more each day than I know what to do with. I don’t know why I wanted to come back. It is a hollow, dry world, to know what it did to him. What cruel sphere do we live in where something so horrid could happen to someone who wanted nothing more than to live and live freely?”

“I don’t know. But he was not the only one. Lómion- I was angry at him for so long, but then I must turn and ask, what did he do to deserve the monstrous weight that was placed on him? His father’s abuse, the ignorance of Gondolin, the tortures of the enemy- he did not deserve it. Eöl abused him before he could walk. If not with his hands, then with denial of love and affection. That I did not know or understand, that none of us knew or understood- I would like to tear apart the person who decided that fate for him with my bare hands. There are others too. Celebrimbor, well I suppose you knew him. He was probably the only innocent of the first age, despite his heritage, and he died screaming. The whole Peredhel line, who must always be severed from their kin no matter their choice. Us. What did we ever do to deserve the burden of loving mortals?”

Finduilas set down her glass of wine, and clasped her hands tightly to the railing of the balcony. “How do you live with knowing the so many horrible things have happened to good people?”

Idril didn’t live with it. It would have killed her to simply live with it, now that she knew. “I don’t live with it. How could anyone just want to live with it? Maedhros says that it is our duty, to prevent others from making the mistakes we did. To never forget our past. He means the kinslayings, his suicide, the oath. But I do not think that excuses the rest of us from the same duty. Do better. Make others do better. Make it so that when Túrin comes back, it is a better world than the one he left. A more livable one.”

There was no response, only muffled weeping. Idril usually reserved her calls to action for the Valar. She had not meant to be that forceful with Finduilas. She had not meant to make her cry. The Sindar at the other end of the balcony noticed too. They had mostly dispersed, leaving only two behind. Idril gave them a threatening look, but neither one fled. The younger of the two, a familiar-looking golden-hair ellon, gave his older, silver-haired companion a gentle glance, and pulled him to his feet. They approached. As he came into the light of the Fëanorian lantern hanging above them, Idril recognized the younger one.

“You’re the other Legolas.” 

The other Legolas shrugged. “I suppose. You’re Idril Celebrindal.” 

Idril pulled herself into her best queenly posed, pushing her shoulders back and down, and fixed him with a steady gaze. “Now is not a good time, boy. I’m sure Elladan can tell you where to find me sometime else.”

The other elf swayed unsteadily on his feet. He seemed green; Idril pushed a pun about ‘green elves’ out of her mind. Legolas grabbed his hand. Idril forced herself to relax from furious queen into gentle lady, breathing slower and letting her posture relax. 

“Are you alright? Is there anything I can help you with?”

The old elf squeezed Legolas’s hand. Legolas said, “is this Lady Finduilas?”

Finduilas looked up. Her face was streaked with tears. “Not now.”

The old elf finally, finally spoke. “Finduilas, my name is Beleg.”

Even Idril knew the name. She looked at him again, closer this time, watching his nervous hands, one squeezing Legolas’s so tight it was white-knuckled. The other clenched and unclenched in empty space. Finduilas looked him up and down, and then threw her arms around his neck, knocking him to the ground. They lay where they fell, and wept. His hands fisted in her hair, and she buried her face in his neck. 

Idril thought of her own meeting with Voronwë, the first time they had seen each other since Tuor’s death. It meant so much to see someone else who shared her love of him. Clearly, Beleg and Finduilas meant the same to each other. 

Legolas, who had narrowly avoided falling with Beleg by pulling away his hand, stepped away from them. He looked at Idril, and then down at his hands. 

“I loved a dwarf,” he murmured, “more than I had words for.”

Idril was not unobservant enough to have missed the only dwarf who had ever set foot on Valinor. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I wouldn’t trade what we had for all the silmarils, or every star in the sky.”

Idril put a hand on his shoulder. “I wouldn’t either, except that one of the stars is our son holding a silmaril.”

Legolas gave a wry laugh, and looked down at Finduilas and Beleg, whose tears were mostly silent. “I’ll watch the door onto the balcony if you take the stairs.”

Idril took her hand off his shoulder to shake his hand. “Deal.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guess who found another fucking story buried on her desktop that she’d never bothered editing? (it’s me). Thanks to everyone who I talked to about the Elves Who Love Mortals Support Group and also the Wow We Love Túrin Buddies (patent pending) ((Especially FactorialRabbits, of course))


End file.
